Twisted. (Book Nine)

Three: Just Another Perfect Political Family.

That same Saturday night, Hanna Marin sat with her boyfriend, Mike Montgomery, in an old glass bottle warehouse turned photography studio in downtown Hollis. The high-ceiling industrial space was filled with hot lights, multiple cameras, and several different backdrops—a blue cloth, an autumn scene, and a screen covered with a big, waving American flag, which Hanna found unbearably cheesy.

Hanna's father, Tom Marin, stood amid the throng of political advisors, adjusting his tie and mouthing his lines. He was running for U.S. Senate next November, and today he was filming his very first political commercial that would introduce Pennsylvania to just how senatorial he was. His new wife, Isabel, stood next to him, fluffing her brown chin-length hair, smoothing down her red politician's-wife power suit—complete with shoulder pads, ugh—and inspecting her orangey skin in a Chanel hand mirror.

"Seriously," Hanna whispered to Mike, who was helping himself to yet another sandwich from the food cart. "Why didn't someone tell Isabel to lay off Mystic Tan? She looks like an Oompa Loompa."

Mike snickered, squeezing Hanna's hand as Hanna's stepsister, Kate, glided past. Unfortunately, Kate wasn't a clone of her mom—she looked like she'd spent the day in the salon getting her chestnut hair highlighted, fake eyelashes glued on, and teeth whitened so she'd look absolutely perfect for her father's big commercial. Stepfather, not that Kate ever made the distinction. And not that Hanna's dad ever did, either.

Then, as if sensing Hanna was thinking nasty thoughts about her, Kate pranced over. "You guys should be helping, you know. There's a ton to do."

Hanna took an apathetic sip from the can of Diet Coke she'd pilfered from the cooler. Kate had taken it upon herself to be her dad's mini assistant like some wager intern on The West Wing. "Like what?"

"Like you could help me run my lines," Kate suggested bossily. She reeked of her favorite Jo Malone Fig and Cassis body lotion, which to Hanna smelled like a moldy prune left out in the woods too long. "I have three sentences in the ad, and I want them to be perfect."

"You have lines?" Hanna blurted, and then instantly regretted it. That was exactly what Kate wanted her to say.

As Hanna predicted, Kate's eyes widened with fake sympathy. "Oh, Hanna, you mean you don't have any? I wonder why that is?" She whirled around and sauntered back to the set. Her hips swung. Her glossy hair bounced. No doubt there was a huge smile on her face.

Shaking with fury, Hanna grabbed a handful of potato chips from the bowl next to her and shoved them in her mouth. They were sour cream and onion, not her favorite, but she didn't care. Hanna had been warring with her stepsister ever since Kate reentered Hanna's life last year and became one of the most popular girls at Rosewood Day. Kate was still BFFs with Naomi Zeigler and Riley Wolfe, two bitches who'd had it in for Hanna ever since their Ali (aka Courtney) ditched them at the beginning of sixth grade. After Hanna reunited with her old friends, Kate's rise to popularity didn't bother her so much, but now that she, Spencer, Aria, and Emily weren't speaking, Hanna couldn't help but let Kate get to her.

"Forget her." Mike touched Hanna's arm. "She looks like she has an American flag shoved up her butt."

"Thanks," Hanna said flatly, but it wasn't much of a salve.

Today, she just felt...diminished. Unnecessary. There was only room for one shining teenage daughter, and that was the girl who'd received three whole sentences to say on camera.

Just then, Mike's cell phone pinged. "It's from Aria," he murmured, texting back. "Want me to tell her hi?"

Hanna turned away, saying nothing. After Jamaica, Aria and Hanna had tried to remain friends, going to Iceland together because Noel had already bought the tickets. But by the end of that summer, there were just too many bad memories and secrets between them. These days, Hanna tried not to think about her old friends at all. It was easier that way.